


(whenever i want you) all i have to do

by orangesparks



Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28335645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangesparks/pseuds/orangesparks
Summary: If she closes her eyes, blots out the noise, and wishes real hard, she can be anywhere else.It's a talent. (It's a comfort.)
Relationships: George McFly/Lorraine Baines McFly, Lorraine Baines McFly/Biff Tannen
Comments: 9
Kudos: 26
Collections: Yuletide Madness 2020





	(whenever i want you) all i have to do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Heather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heather/gifts).



The sad part is, she thinks, he was almost sort of _normal_ once.

Maybe it was losing both his folks, or the way his grandmother is always shouting at him, but just as likely the culprit was that seventh-grade growth spurt - when he sprouted up from merely the surly boy across the street into the tallest, meanest sonuvabitch at Hill Valley. 

There was stiff competition for the role - his little cronies were plenty unpleasant, too - but no one makes her shiver like Biff. 

She isn't stupid; she knows the effect she can have on boys. What she doesn't understand is why he's so hellbent on _her._

He's on the football team, he's not entirely repulsive-looking, there must be _plenty_ of other girls willing to tolerate an evening with him. 

"You win," he says, grinning against her locker.

"I win what?" she snaps, slamming it closed, satisfied when it nearly smarts his fingertips.

"The honor of being my date to the dance." There's rude snickers behind her - his buddies, of course, a Greek chorus of juvenile delinquents. 

"I forfeit." 

She swans her way past him, eyes narrowing when a beefy fist snatches her by the bicep, yanking her back against him, snug against the brick wall that is his chest. 

"That's not the answer I wanted." 

She looks around, despairing - _tired_ -at the faces passing in the hallway; some worried, some uneasy.

No one comes to her aid. 

Gritting her teeth, she bends, driving her elbow into his gut as hard as she can. He bleats out a winded gasp and she roughly pulls her arm away. Her Biology book falls to her feet, a battle casualty. She doesn't care. His goons are too surprised to box her in; a match falls from an open mouth, joining her book on the floor. 

"You're mine, Lorraine," he promises, when she bolts down the hallway. "You're mine!"

-

Growing up the eldest of six with a hard-nosed father and fussy mother is marvelous preparation for a healthy fantasy life.

If she closes her eyes, blots out the noise, and wishes real hard, she can be anywhere else.

It's a talent. (It's a comfort.)

Glossy headshots of James Dean circle her vanity mirror. Her eyes flit in their direction every night, the moment her bedside lamp clicks off, sleep swiftly claiming her; the instant she's out, she's _alive_ , on the back of Dean's motorcycle, speeding past the Tannen house, mud splattering onto Biff's furious face as they pass. 

Dean is daring and tough and doesn't hesitate when he kisses her.

-

There's a boy in her bed.

(The Chordettes sang about stuff like this. She didn't think it ever actually happened.)

Dad nearly _killed_ him, and rather than call the ambulance? Her mother briskly insisted they put "the poor dear" to bed.

She's seen him around school, she thinks. He doesn't look quite old enough to have graduated yet. 

He hasn't been out terribly long - just a few hours - when he stirs, mumbling drowsily. It's dinnertime; she can smell the roast cooking downstairs. Perfect timing. 

She dutifully takes the cold compress that Mother left on the bedside table, sweeps it over his pale forehead. He flinches at the water.

"...Mom?" 

She clicks on the bedside light, and the dazed expression on his face is immediately overtaken by one of immense terror. 

A thousand apologies slip from his mouth - at least, she thinks that's what the litany of _"sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry"_ is meant to be. 

"My dad _hit_ you with his car," she says, crossly. "You have nothing to be sorry for." Then she frowns, suddenly overtaken by curiosity. "Why were you in the middle of the street?"

He averts his gaze, mumbling under his breath.

"Huh?"

Another mumble.

She glares.

"Bird-watching," he says, quickly; just as muffled, but slightly louder. Oddly, a flush spreads over his neck when she looks at him with interest, mottled red rising up his cheeks. 

Like a kid caught stealing penny candy. 

_Hmm._

He reminds her a bit of a bird, an injured one; with that long, aquiline nose, bobbing Adam's apple, his round, scared eyes. 

It's adorable.

She stretches, casual feline grace from years of majorette practice, and settles herself next to him on the bed. 

He about swallows his tongue. 

The only thing keeping her from giggling over it is how it seems the slightest movement will send him bolting straight out of his skin. She schools her expression into one of utter ladylike seriousness, the one she reaches for when Strickland's on her case about not making it to class on time, hands clasped on her lap. 

("You're too forward," Betty chided her one afternoon at Lou's, Lorraine regaling her and Babs with her latest parking exploit over half-melted malts.

"Well," she'd said, primly, the smirk on her face not matching the sugar-sweet voice she'd put on, " _someone_ has to be." Betty rolled her eyes, tossing a balled up napkin at her as Babs let out a cackle, and Lorraine noisily slurped on her malt, batting her eyelashes at them.)

She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and slides closer, careful to avoid eye contact lest he faint. She can hear the shaky, shallow inhales he's trying to hide; feel the warmth of his legs beneath the thin quilt on her bed.

"What's your name?"

-

She has to do _everything_ , honestly. 

While this yielded a slight thrill at first, the appeal is wearing thin.

(It had been sweet, the way he always let her initiate things: pressing him until he asked her to the dance, until he took her hand, until he--

She'd liked it, that wary look in George's eyes when he first woke in her bed, the confusion that fast melted to something else, something she was much more familiar with seeing whenever close to a boy with her charm on full blast.

And she'd liked it, when after all her hinting and prodding and pouting, George ducked his head (bashful or scared or _both_ , hell), accidentally on purpose kissing her only when she stood on tiptoe and swiped her lips against the corner of his mouth.

He'd trembled at her touch, slowly relaxing into it as she wound an arm around his neck, kissing him properly. Enjoying the feel of that warm sliver of skin just above his shirt collar. He'd seemed content enough to let her lead. This was a fine enough compromise until Biff shouldered roughly past them at the end of the night, sneer on his face and whiskey on his breath, and George's arms stiffened around her like a cadet snapping to attention for a sergeant. 

She'd wished she could pull out the flask from her clutch, then, feeling only mildly guilty when she cattily wondered how scandalized poor George would be.)

-

The wedding feels... perfunctory. 

He looks so handsome in his suit; her hair is meticulously curled. She should be happy. She is.

He wants her - she _knows_ that, can see it in the heartbreaking _"me?"_ expression he levels her with whenever he thinks she isn't looking, turning into something soft and tender when she catches him, rewards him for it with a kiss. It's nice to be wanted. It's pure vanity to expect more. He doesn't have to say it if she _knows._

That's all that should matter. 

-

She tries summoning up that special talent she's had since childhood, when the kids are in bed, when George is busy at the table with Biff's paperwork. It's getting harder, these days. A finger or two of rye in her cup of instant Maxwell House helps.


End file.
